by L I Owugah
"Not yet," she said.
"I'm sorry?"
"You've forgotten something?"
She jabbed a finger at the agreement.
I forced a smile.
"Bit too eager," I said in a self-deprecatory tone.
I picked up the document and whizzed through the main details. Ignoring the small print, I signed and printed my name across a dotted line. She reached over and retrieved the document.
"Now you can pay me," she said.
I fished a couple of twenty-pound notes from the wallet and showed them to her. "You don't mind sterling, do you?" I said.
"Not in the slightest."
I slid the notes across the table.
"You can keep the change."
She pushed the money to one side like the insignificant piece of a puzzle and shunted a pen and a white piece of paper beneath my nose. "I have a name and an address for you."
She paused for a spell and pointed at the paper.
"You have to write it down," she said.
I nodded enthusiastically and listened carefully as she mentioned the name of the driver and shared an address, which she believed was his place of residence. Scribbling down the information, I stared at the man's name, and a cloud of anger rose up inside me.
"He's the son of a prominent Government official," she said. "So having an arrest or a confession isn't going to be a walk in the park."
"Are you telling me this bastard is untouchable?"
"Was, right now his father is in prison for embezzlement, meaning his influence will be nothing close to what it used to be."
I said nothing in return. Then I felt the warmth of her hand slip over mine in a comforting gesture.
"There's only one way to go about this. And that's by using the law."
She paused a beat.
"It will probably cost you a bit. But for the right price, you stand a decent chance of getting a result." She looked uncomfortable and the proverbial penny dropped. This was Lagos. The only way of persuading a corrupt police force to get off their backsides was to grease their oily palms. A short while later I was headed back to the hotel in another yellow cab. Having acquired the driver's name and address, I could feel the Adrenalin rush flush through my veins. I was within touching distance of achieving justice for the crime that had brought the lives of my parents to a premature end. Then an unidentified number silently flashed up on my mobile phone. I answered it.
"Hello," I said.
"Are you the one they call Michael?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I have an urgent message for him, Sah."
I paused for a moment.
"Michael speaking."
"Good," the caller returned. "My name is Sergeant Arinze; we have met before." I remembered the name instantly. Sergeant Winston Arinze. One of the three police officers who had conned me out of forty pounds, after accompanying Uncle Taffi and myself to the crash site. I cringed at the sound of his voice. It reminded me of an unscrupulous used car salesman.
"I remember you," I said irritably. "You and your buddies left me forty pounds short."
"Please, don't be annoyed," he replied in a weary tone. "Lagos life is complicated. Anyway, that is not what I am calling about."
"I'm listening."
"The officer you were looking for the other day wants to meet with you."
I felt as though I'd been shot with a taser gun.
"Excuse me?"
"Inspector Phoenix Balogun."
"But I ..."
"Yes, I know," he interjected. "For security reasons, we had to tell you we did not know him."
"Forgive me if I find that pretty hard to believe," I said.
"This is no time for argument, Sah...can you make it?"
"When?"
"Today"
"What time?"
"He will be here in half an hour. You remember the address?" I asked for it again and put the phone on speaker for the driver to hear. After Sergeant Arinze had finished, he said, "See you soon," and the line went dead. I glanced at my watch.
"Think we can make it there in thirty minutes?" I asked the driver.
"Twenty self, we go follow shortcut."
I nodded and smiled to myself. The pieces were finally beginning to take shape. I had a name, an address, and was now thirty minutes away from meeting a man I hoped would help ensure justice was done. My mind went to Jonah again. He was smart, dominant, and intuitive.
But on this occasion, wrong.
12
AN OFFICER NOT A GENTLEMAN
Inspector Phoenix Balogun stood before a full-length, bedside mirror and buttoned up his police tunic, which concealed the bulletproof vest he had worn each day for over ten years. Satisfied, he stared down at the twenty-five-year-old sex worker with whom he had just spent the last half hour. The woman was naked and lying in a fetal position, her arms curled around a pillow. But this was nothing new to Balogun. He was a frequent patron at her place of business and all too familiar with the game she was playing.
Part of a local brothel, the room was being rented as a location from which the young lady could practise her chosen trade, and have a place to stay. Illuminated by the crimson glow of a red coloured bulb which hung from the ceiling, the room was tiny but adequately equipped for the job. A double bed took up the majority of the room's floor space, and a ceiling fan was on full blast. A medium size flat screen television stood on a stand fitted with a couple of shelves. Stacked on the top shelf was a DVD player. On the one below, a number of adult discs for anyone requiring a little incentive.
Fifty years of age, Balogun stood a mere five feet seven inches. A barrel chest, arms the size of boulders, and thighs built like tree trunks, gave him a physical presence that was impossible to ignore. However, to the discerning eye, the officer's persistent application of bleaching creams to lighten what was once a dark complexion, was evidence of a deep bred insecurity. An insecurity a psychologist might link to the crisis of identity of a man who had never known his biological father, and, like the lady before him, one who had been raised by a woman who had also been a full-time practitioner of the oldest profession in the world. Balogun gazed at the woman again.
Appearing exhausted at the end of a session was aimed at boosting the client's ego, in hope, of a higher fee than the one initially agreed. The woman, possessing a face of virginal innocence, and a body built for seduction, could use this strategy effectively on most men. Just not him. Counting a handful of notes from his pocket, he dumped the cash on the bed. As though on cue, the woman batted open an eyelid.
"No jara?" she said in broken English, a dejected tone to her voice.
"Next time," Balogun said. She sat upright and gathered the cash together. "It's not good, oooh! you never give me any ting extra." He looked at her again. She had the animal attraction his ex-wife had never possessed, and had given him the kind of pleasure she was never able to fulfil. But he was an officer, not a gentleman.
"I said next time!"
He yanked open the door and marched out of the room. Closing the door behind him, Balogun turned left and proceeded to walk down a corridor illuminated by a red glow. Heading past several rooms, Balogun sauntered through an open archway that connected with a large lounge which had a bar and a restaurant service area. It was mid-afternoon, and the broad windows on either side of the room were wide open, flooding the space with natural daylight. A pleasant draught swept through the room, a combination of cross ventilation and two ceiling fans on full power. Several male customers were seated at tables around the room. They were enjoying bottles of beer and eating delectable dishes of grilled fish, fried snails, and bowls of pepper soup.
Some of the men were already in the company of women for hire, while others seemed to be saving the action for later. At the back of the room were a couple of comfortable looking sofa's. Balogun sank into one of them. He beckoned to the waiter from the bar, who scurried over to attend to him.
"Oga, I salute oooh!" the wai
ter said deferentially, bouncing the flat of his hand off the top of his forehead like a military officer.
"Give me a bottle of Star," Balogun said.
"Any fried goat, fish, pepper soup?" the waiter asked with dedicated enthusiasm.
"Maybe later."
The waiter disappeared for a few moments and returned with a frozen looking bottle of Star beer and a tall glass on a tray. Placing the items on a bar stool, he popped off the lid of the beer bottle.
"Ice cold, Sah!" he said. "Just how you prefer it."
"Good man."
Balogun took a swig from the bottle and savoured the bitter taste, as it melted the dryness of his throat and settled into the pit of his stomach. He smiled to himself, enjoying the smooth texture of one of the nation's oldest and most enduring alcoholic beverages. Half an hour later, the bottle was empty, and he was about to draw the attention of the waiter for another when he heard a commotion from the other side of the room. Balogun's combat instincts kicked in immediately.
His eyes scanned the room and identified a casually dressed man, seated across from the same sex worker he had paid off a short while ago. Physically speaking, the man was enormous and looked capable of creating a world of trouble. However, on closer inspection, Balogun could also tell there was something unusual about him. Starting with his eyes, or rather, the direction in which they were looking. Turning to see what the man, and everyone else, for that matter, were staring at, Balogun immediately spotted where the disturbance was coming from.
Over in a far corner, a couple of inebriated men were standing across from each other at a busy table. The men were screaming at each other in what looked like a drunken standoff, while a hired girl frantically tried to ease the commotion. In a blind rage, one of the men snatched up an empty beer bottle from the table. As though to prove a point, he smashed it over his own head. Balogun rose silently from the couch and marched over to the men's table. But he didn't stop. He walked right past them and headed out of the front door. It was apparent that neither man had noticed him.
But for Balogun this was irrelevant.
He was an officer of the Law, and the actions of both men constituted a significant level of disrespect. More importantly, the situation was a window of opportunity. An opportunity to make a ton of cash. But the insult would have to be addressed first. As Balogun exited the building, he headed over to a Hilux pick up truck marked POLICE. He reached into the vehicle's open-ended compartment and snatched up a tasselled horsewhip, popularly known as a Koboko.
Holding the Koboko in his right hand, a call came through on his mobile phone. Balogun fished the handset out from his pocket with his left and answered it. "Rambo," the voice on the other end said, addressing Balogun by the nickname he had answered to for over a decade.
"How far?" Balogun said.
"The man from London is here," the voice returned.
Balogun smiled.
"Give me half an hour," he said and rolling his neck like a prime Mike Tyson, walked back into the bar.
13
JUKU
The driver of the fast-moving Range Rover had the pedal to the floor and showed no signs of letting up. At six in the morning, it was at least an hour since first light, and Simon Juku was returning from another all-nighter at a randomly selected night spot. All four windows of the motor vehicle were wound down, allowing a flood of moist, fresh smelling air, to sweep through the interior of the cabin and hit him flush in the face.
An added buzz to what was already a drug and alcohol induced high.
In the back seat, the beautiful, caramel complexioned female he had picked up half an hour earlier had fallen asleep. Picking up a whiff of her clean smelling fragrance, he gazed at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. She was kitted out in a crop top, and a tiny mini skirt. She couldn't have been more than twenty years of age. Allowing his gaze to linger on a pair of legs which ran for miles, and perfectly manicured feet in platform style sandals, Juku felt a lump of desire rise in his throat. She was probably a university student, he thought. Another girl on some nearby campus who would willingly trade her body for the opportunity to afford a decent education. He smiled to himself at the ultimate thrill of it all.
Being the only son of a former Southern State Governor, the thirty-five-year-old was no stranger to a life of money, recreational drugs, and sexual excess. During his father's eight-year reign, he had carte blanche to do whatever he pleased. However, since the Governor's arrest and fifteen-year sentence for financial embezzlement, those days were long gone. "Karma was a bitch," he had often heard people say. But this didn't change the fact he was bitter. Bitter about his loss of status, and furious that he had been made a social pariah by those within the Governments elite circles, who had severed ties with him for fear of being exposed themselves.
But old habits die slowly.
Though the social privileges Juku had once enjoyed were now gone, his addiction to alcohol, cocaine, and sexual gratification had shown no signs of dissipating.
At a mere five feet six inches, Juku had always been insecure about his height. He was also in poor health, an asthma sufferer since birth, and embodied a fragile physique, which resembled that of a pre-pubescent youngster. However, irrespective of these physical deficits, the ominous presence of his bodyguard who sat in the front passenger seat of the motor vehicle gave him little cause to concern himself about self-defence. His name was Emenike, a man mountain, who at six foot nine inches weighed something in the region of three hundred pounds. At age twenty-eight, Emenike had been in Juku's employ for seven years. Dwarfing everyone he met, the giant was once described as having the type of aura that calcified the blood of grown men. At a single glance, the bodyguard's role was self-explanatory. However, on the rare occasion, he encountered someone who needed to be reminded, he ensured that the damage left behind would leave others with no doubt.
An example of such brutality had occurred only a couple of weeks earlier and involved five heavily built doormen, who had refused Juku entry to a prominent nightclub. A brazen insult in Juku's view, but an insult Emenike had corrected in the space of ten minutes. Ten minutes of chaos that had resulted in the hospitalization of all five men, who were left with a combination of broken ribs, cracked skulls, and shattered jaws. Five men who at best would forever need support for life-altering injuries.
It was a chilling reminder of Emenike's brute strength, animal-like savagery, and unquestionable loyalty. But also a performance that would open the door to an offer Juku would find too lucrative to refuse.
The visit was unannounced and came a week later. A visit to Juku's home in the city of Abuja from a stranger he had never met. An elderly looking man, who seemed powerful and well connected. A man in his early seventies who was dressed from head to toe in white. A white safari suit matched with a large, white Stetson hat, like a Texan Oil Merchant.
The visitor's physical make up was also unique. A bloated, tribal marked face, and a skeletal frame. More extraordinary still was how in a country whose citizens continued to have an inferiority complex around foreigners, the man's driver was a Caucasian man in his fifties. A silent employee who looked like he worked for the Queen of England.
The visitor's offer was direct. Fifty thousand pounds in exchange for Emineke's services. A generous proposal, which, if declined, would automatically become a demand. The reason for this was simple. On the night the giant had destroyed any chance of a healthy future for the five doormen, he had scuppered a crucial investment. A significant investment, which had involved ready-made plans for these men to participate in a contest the visitor had described as the Squared Circle in the United Kingdom.
An underground fight competition matching the best against the best. A contest in which Emenike would now be required to become a participant. As the needle of the Range Rover speedometer edged past a hundred kilometres per hour, Juku smiled at the thought of the amount he was to receive in the next few days. He had no doubts that the man in the white hat,
who had not shared his name, was a person of significant influence, and decided that this was no time to make enemies. He was also confident that he would have no difficulty in securing Emenike's co-operation and decided he would compensate him with a payment of five hundred pounds. A minuscule figure next to what was being offered, but for a man who had never shown any interest in money, likely to be sufficient.
The smile on Juku's face broadened. He had been running short of cash for several weeks, but the next six months would be a return to form. A time to "Step up his game," as the Americans liked to say. Cristal rather than Moet, women from foreign countries, rather than university students looking to pay their next tuition, and an unbridled consumption of the purest cocaine on the market. Fifty thousand pounds. A fat packet of cash that Juku was sure would be gone in three months. He had no plans after that. But decided that was a bridge better crossed when he got there.